Dean Mossberg, US Army
by mrstserc
Summary: Dean comes back from Purgatory, but decides he's tired trying to keep up the family business, especially since Sam doesn't want to. So instead, Dean enlists in the Army. I do not own any part of the rights to Supernatural. May contain Season 8 spoilers. Please read accordingly if you have not watched Season 8.
1. Enlisting

**_US Army Cadence call_**

_My honey heard me comin' on my left right on left_

_I saw Jody runnin' on his left right on left_

_I chased after Jody and I ran him down_

_Poor ol' boy doesn't feel good now_

_M.P.s came a runnin on their left right on left_

_The medics came a runnin on their left right on left_

_He felt a little better with a few I.V.s_

_Son I told you not to mess with them ELEVEN Bs (_That's code for infantryman_.)_

**. . . . . . .**

Dean had had it. He'd been to Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory. He'd been a hunter and tried to be a typical suburban guy. He'd died more times than he could remember. Most of all, he had tried since he was four years old to look after his little brother, only to have Sam resent him time and again. Thirty years now, and he was damned tired of all of it – of people screwing him over, of never being good enough, of never being enough.

Of saving the world just to have it kick him in the gut.

If Sam wants out, so be it. He wants to go back to college - he should go. He wants to be Jody of military fame, stealing away a soldier's wife – well, that wasn't fine with Dean but he also can't stop it; Sam can be with Amelia – have his dog – and he can do it without me, Dean decides. I've lost everyone who meant something to me, except Sam, and Sam doesn't want me here.

What's a guy whose best skill is killing going to do? Join the military.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Dean swears at the computer when he finds out he is too old to join the Marine Corps. He always kind of thought if he went in, he'd do what his dad did. "Well, fuck all – you gotta pass security clearance tests to be Special Forces. And Rangers gotta jump out of planes. Bad enough to have to get in one." Boats are too confining. Air Force says planes to him. He chews on his lower lip when he reads that the Army, where this is the almost the last year he's eligible to enlist as far as his age is concerned, might not take him with a G.E.D.

First step is buying a good background packet. Obviously, he needs it to be a good enough job that fingerprints would come up clean. Background – well, hell, with life experience, he thinks he can buy a high school diploma and a college degree. He'll get diplomas, and have faked transcripts from a community college in something suitably vague from a big place with fairly low standards. Plenty of them around. If he stays out of the military fields that require security clearances that should be okay.

Then Dean Winchester disappears, and Dean Mossberg walks into an Army recruiting station in Dallas, Texas. He has a birth certificate that puts his age at 34, a Texas driver's license, a ten-year-old associate's degree in general studies from Richland College, an unimpressive work experience, a clean police record, and says he'd like to go infantry. The recruiter, Staff Sgt. Gary Jones, thinks if this guy can read, write, and pass a physical – he's a win in the quota column. As a matter of fact, he looks good enough on paper that the recruiter drives him to the MEP station and sets him up on the ASVAB – which he aces the whole way through. He passes the physical with no waivers too.

"Man, scores like that, you could fill one of the more technical specialties or maybe one of the elite fighting groups," the Staff Sgt. Jones says. But Mossberg gives a crooked grin and asks if he could maybe get a little rank instead. Paperwork comes next, and Dean is surprised to find out that he is enlisting in a career field that'll give him bonus money for signing up. PFC Dean Mossberg gets sworn in and is told to report to Fort Banning, Georgia, in five days to begin training.

Less than one week. He'd start with the hardest first and go take the five-hour drive over to Kermit, Texas, to say goodbye to Sammy. They may not be on the best of terms right now, but he's family, and Dean's not some punk kid running away. Dean has some identification for him too. Sam Mossberg was created as a just in case – for soldier's life insurance benefits.

"You did what? Dean?" Sammy's a little pissed off at the news. "You know you're going end up in a combat zone? You could die fighting in some sandbox for nothing. What the fuck, Dean?"

Okay, maybe more than a little.

"What about Cas? What if he comes back? What about the family business?"

No, that one's too low. Dean can't let it ride. He lifts his green eyes and glares at his brother. "You don't get to talk to me about the family business, Sam. You didn't even answer the phone, or the voice mails, or look for me." He's building a full-steam burst of anger and trying to choke it back at the same time. This is his Sammy - the last of his family. Without Sam by his side there's no such thing as a family business any more.

"Forget it, Sam, just forget it. I've got one thing I do need from you, though. Can you look after baby until I'm done training? The recruiter said I'm not supposed to have a car."

Sam shakes his head in disbelief, but agrees to that. He asks Dean if he wants to stay for dinner with him and Amelia, but the thought turns Dean's stomach. He asks if Sam would instead just him a lift over to Big Springs where he's catching a Greyhound bus tomorrow for a two-day journey.

Their parting is anticlimactic - these two brothers who once would have done anything for each other. Have done the impossible for each other. "Keep in touch," Sam chokes out. He doesn't know why this feels so wrong. His brother is just going to do something normal, let him be normal.

Dean pulls his brother in for a hug. Claps him on the back, locks the last remnants of Dean Winchester in the trunk, and says, sure, he'll stay in touch. Neither one of them foresees weekly phone calls or letters home.

Dean slips his duffel over his shoulder and walks away.


	2. Training

Fort Benning, Georgia, OSUT, 198th Infantry Training Regiment

PFC Dean Mossberg soon got a new nickname - Old Man – but he figured he'd been called worse and under far more extreme circumstances. Fourteen weeks of training with a goal of taking civilians and turning them into "Disciplined Military Fighting Men" was the stated goal, and Dean was interested in how these Drill Sergeants - who seemed to think yelling should rattle anything but a person's ear drums - were going to turn a bunch of sniveling, out-of-shape babies into anything resembling something disciplined.

Maybe some of that wonder showed in his face, because his Drill Sergeants Pearson and Harwood, seemed to want to start that with him. He tried to keep the amused gleam out of his eye, but they must have noticed. Kids, the both of them. Younger than Sammy. But once they saw he wasn't a fuck up, they stuck him with the worst they had in the platoon, and told him the goal was to help every one of these snot-nosed, cry-for- your-mommy-at-night types make it through. The gleam was in their eyes then because that was truly a challenge.

It was on.

Only problem, if you could call it that, was that Dean's original intent was to stay under the radar. Skate through unnoticed. It's hard to be invisible when – well – everything they were asking of him was just too damned easy. The real challenge was making sure that these boys were giving it all they had. Gas Chamber – sheesh, you spent most of it masked, and so what if you had to take it off – CS Gas is like watered down pepper spray, gave you a runny nose. Boo-the-fuck-hoo.

The Confidence Course again would have been easier if it was just him, but the Old Man had babies to sit. His platoon won the challenge, and it was great to see those kids' eyes light up for a chance to make a five minute phone call home.

Drill Sergeant Pearson asked Dean who he was going to call, and learned more about the person he was training than he expected when Dean said he didn't have anyone to call, because it was the first time he saw a crack in the perfect soldier façade. Some people join the Army because of the benefits they receive, others to test themselves, and others saw it as their duty; it seemed to Drill Sergeants Pearson and Harwell that they may have finally figured out their super-man's motivation – Mossberg was finding a place where he could belong.

They could work with that.

Range week – piece of cake. Hand-to-hand? The hardest part was not actually hurting his sparring partners. The Instructor saw he was holding back, though, and called him up for some one-on-one time. Dean ended up with a bloody nose, but teaching the instructor how to do that one move. The Old Man was becoming a legend all around the Sand Hill training area.

Pearson asked their captain if there was some way someone could find out whether he was from some foreign military or black ops group. The guy was too good at the stuff, made it look too easy, for him to have a civilian all his life.

Land navigation, road marches, team maneuvers, grenade training, combat first aid – all simple – complicated only by the way the Old Man was fierce in his commitment now, –his- platoon was going to come out on top. He didn't seem to need more than four hours of sleep as he mentored and set the strong training the weak in the barracks at night. When he did stop being a dervish and would sit with an unopened Bible clasped in his hands and his head bowed for a while every day, well, they respected that too.

They thought he was the most foul-mouthed devout man they had ever met.

"Damnit, this stuff is going to keep you alive. C'mon you sonsofbitches, try again." His intensity and obvious concern made him every boy there's big brother or even new dad. For too many, their only dad. And when one of them did it, made the Old Man proud by overcoming some problem or fear, the clap on the shoulder and "awesome" was made more rewarding by a smile that knocked years off the Old Man's face and lit his eyes.

The whole platoon took to him, and tried to be just like him - a scary bunch of disciplined badasses – who made their Drill Sergeants look good. They all had a blast in heavy weapons training. The Old Man had a grin pasted across his face most of those days. "Do you know how much this shit costs?" He asked at large. "And they are letting us use it for free!"

When Drill Sergeant Harwood saw the glimmer of fear in the back of the Old Man's eyes at the top of the four-story tall Eagle Tower before pushing him over to rappel down, he was actually relieved. Until that moment he was starting to think Mossberg was some kind of robot. It was nice to see he was actually human…even if that meant he was damned good at hiding his fears.

Three weeks before the end of training, the Drill Sergeants started talking to the platoon about what came next. Orders for assignments, family days, graduation, maybe even leave time. All they had to get through were some field training exercises, night ops and marches. It was already pretty clear that the Old Man was the Company's honor graduate. He held the highest scores in marksmanship, physical training, and every other individual test.

His guys had learned an important lesson from him, leave no one behind. The few guys whose family or girlfriend weren't going to make it to family day activities were drawn in to spend that family time with those who did. They all wanted to include the Old Man – they had noticed that he never made a phone call when given a chance, never had a letter at mail call.

They backed away puzzled when he growled out that he didn't need their charity. He had family. They gave him space and watched him as he said staring at the public phones like one might bite him if he reached for it.

They noticed he wrote a letter the night he got his orders.

Sammy –You were right. Seems I am heading to Afghanistan after I finish training. As soon as I can, I'll send you a way to contact me if you need me. Otherwise, if something comes up, you can reach me through the American Red Cross. I hope it's okay if I leave baby with you a while longer. Your brother, Dean


	3. Week before graduation

**The week before graduation**

Dean was surprised to get a letter at mail call. As he sits on his cot turning it over in his hands, seeing Sam's return address using the alias Dean had set up, he is torn between being overwhelmed that Sam wrote and annoyed that he attached that alias to his current non-hunting life. _Sammy's getting soft,_ he thinks. _He can't be Joe College and a hunter._

"There's usually stuff to read inside the envelope, Old Man." Some of the guys tease him as he sits on his bunk examining the envelope. Dean looks up to give them a cocky grin and notices that half his platoon is watching him – the other half looks like they just turned away so they didn't get caught.

"Nosy bunch, ain'tcha?" His grin turns into a fond smile as he looks back at the envelope, holds it up with a little wave. "My little brother – Joe College."

The other guys smile back; happy to see _their_ Old Man happy … but vulnerable like they've not seen him except when he is praying. Mossberg isn't one to let his guard down – apologizes, but never explains when he startles awake at night with gasps loud enough to wake the sleeping soldiers around him. Nor do they hold it against him; the Old Man has done so much for each of them, helping them overcome their obstacles, honing their combat skills, that they would do anything for him. If they had known about a brother they might have tried to contact him themselves. Infantry training can strip you raw and it's harder when you don't have anything to fall back on.

He tears the end off the envelope and slides out the letter inside.

**. . . . . . .**

_Damnit Dean,_

_I told you you'd end up being sent to a combat zone. Why'd you have to go sign up for the Infantry? Why couldn't you have just settled down around here somewhere – gotten a regular job - stayed here in Texas with me? We've spent so much forced time apart what with hell, and hell, and purgatory. I really can't believe you just left like that. I'm your __family__. _

_And, hey, dude – how about we set you up a Gmail account so we can email? Or get a cell phone, and we can try to do a better job about keeping in touch, Jerk._

_For example, if I hadn't figured out how the training companies at Fort Benning set up Facebook pages dedicated to keeping families updated, I would have never known how you are top of your company, the honor grad. I'm proud of you. Nice haircut, by the way. Oh, and I arranged time with my classes to come for your graduation. So I'll be seeing you soon._

_You could have told me about the family days, Dean. Why do you have to be such a stubborn jerk?_

_News around here – well, I enrolled in University of Texas, Permian Basin, in the Computer and Information Sciences program. I plan to stay through the Master's degree. It's not law, and it's not Stanford, but what with our past experiences I figure I might need to stay away from the justice system. The college is about a half-hour from here and I'm still working as the handyman for a few local places. Amelia's Vet Practice is really growing too._

_Take care of yourself, Dean. I worry about you out there without me or Castiel having your back._

_Your brother, Sam_

_P.S. You know you're going to have to fly to Afghanistan, right?_

**. . . . . . .**

Dean was just starting the letter for the third time when Drill Sgt. Pearson shows up next to him. "In the office, Mossberg."

Dean has always been obedient to command, and without question, stands, folds his letter away and sticks it in his pocket. He reaches for his uniform jacket with a questioning look to his Drill Sergeant; Pearson nods. Dean follows Pearson buttoning up as he goes and wondering what he's being called on the carpet for, mulling over the day to determine what to expect. Normally though, calls to the office were about personal stuff. Drill Sergeants didn't have a problem reaming you out for any mistake in front of the group. In fact, they prefer it.

The small office was pretty crowded with the two desks, and as Dean steps in he is surprised to see both his drill sergeants step out, leaving him with an older looking unfamiliar Warrant Officer who is wearing Special Forces tabs on his uniform. His nametape identifies him, ambiguously, as Smith. "Report," he barks.

"PFC Mossberg, reporting, Sir." Dean snaps out, drawing himself to attention and holding his salute until it is returned. He stands at attention while the Warrant Officer inspects him for a few beats longer than is comfortable.

Smith perches on the edge of the desk. "Sit down, Mossberg." He indicates the grey metal chair in front of the desk with a jerk of his jaw, and ignores the wary sidelong glance from Dean as he sits. There's an uncomfortable silence. Dean isn't going to break it; he has stilled to an alert freeze that he could break in a flurry of defensive action if needed, decides he doesn't care how strange it might seem if the next word out of his mouth is "Christo."

"Excuse me, Private?" Smith looks at him puzzled. A grizzled combat veteran, the Warrant Officer notices the alertness in the posture of the man sitting in front of him, reads wariness in the tightness around his eyes. Mossberg is a puzzle wrapped in an enigma.

The Warrant Officer has done a cursory background check and it screams fake identity. Mossberg's company commander has put out some feelers in the military network asking about the guy; "too sharp and too well trained to have been a civilian" stated the query. This man, Mossberg, older than most who come through without prior service, has aced every test, taken to military training like he was born to it – made it look easy. He also seems to have a command presence that he has tucked away incompletely so as not to challenge the non-commissioned officers in charge of him, but the report says has every trainee in his company ready to follow wherever this man leads.

Smith is here to recruit him or expose him, whichever he feels is most appropriate after confronting him.

Smith starts with simple questions, trying to widen the gaps he has found in the background report. "Where're you from, Mossberg?"

Such an innocent question and one Dean has deflected several times during basic, he usually just says the Midwest, that he moved around a lot as a kid. But coming from a complete stranger, in an office alone, Dean recognizes this as an interrogation and wishes he could plead the fifth – a right to remain silent. That right is one of many soldiers routinely sign away in their enlistment contract.

Dean decides that he'd rather be the aggressor. "Sir, you've read my record – _that's a shot in the dark but one that Dean sees confirmed on Smith's face before the older man draws his expression closed _- I respectfully request that you just ask me straight out what you want to know."

Smith isn't used to having someone set him back on his heels. Adds that to the measure of the man in front of him, decides that Mossberg needs to start answering, but that this right here and now may not have been the best way to approach him. His perfect background was hinky; this man here is obviously a trained military man who has undergone real interrogation. The question remains, is he friend or foe? Is he some kind of terrorist plant? A spy? What kind of military man tries to hide prior training that would give him rank and status?

"Where'd you get your training?" This question is more of a command for information from Smith.

Dean straightens. "My father was a Marine, Sir."

"We don't have a record of that," Smith grounds out, and Dean realizes his mistake, realizes that he should have built a background that explained some of his skills. But it wasn't a question, so Dean doesn't try to answer it. Smith recognizes the rules that Dean has just delineated. This Mossberg will answer direct questions only.

"Did you serve as a mercenary?" That gets a negative. "In a foreign service? Prior US military?" Twice, again, the answer is no. "Some sort of militia in the US?"

Dean stops to consider that one. Is being a hunter, militia? His green eyes meet the older man's brown ones unwilling to lie and recognizing that hunters are a type of militia. His hesitation answers the question for Smith. He now has a crack in the wall of silence.

"Do you have a warrant?" Smith asks. This is actually not the worst case scenario in his opinion. Mossberg doesn't strike him as a sociopath, reports say he prays daily with a Christian bible, he has marksmanship skills and combat sense that will be an asset for the country. The military has helped plenty of men who had the choice to serve time or serve their country. Officially that's against policy, but it has a history of being hidden under the carpet as long as the man in question keeps his nose clean.

"Not to my knowledge, Sir." Dean answers carefully, and Smith relaxes. He now has leverage to use in this negotiation which will end with Mossberg serving where his skills will be put to best use.

The discussion becomes less stilted as Mossberg agrees to just about anything but jumping out of planes, and Smith figures they'll get him to come around. Weaker men than Mossberg have overcome that fear under the careful attentions of the Special Forces Command.


	4. Reunion

_**The Reunion/Graduation Day**_

The warning signs at the front gates of Fort Benning, Georgia, saying that all vehicles may be subjected to search make appearing nonchalant an act as Sam pulls over into the parking lot of the front welcome station to sign in and receive a visitor's pass. The last thing he wants is for some MP to insist on looking through the trunk. He kind of wishes he had flown and rented a car, but he had thought maybe Dean would want to see his baby.

_Dean really loves this car. Please, please don't let me fuck that up by having it impounded. Please, don't make me bring that look to my big brother's eyes again._

Sam has missed his brother with an ache worse than the previous year when he thought Dean was dead, again_. Purgatory – an afterlife for monsters, really, who even knew that a human could go there, nevermind go there and survive._ _Of course, if one could, it would be my big brother_. Anyway, Sam finds praying that his brother was in heaven was closure of a sort. Worrying about him as soldier – out putting his head in the jaw of a government the two generally had tried to avoid their entire life – that was a different thing. And Afghanistan? He didn't even want to think about it.

Having the two of them part on such strained tones, with Dean thinking Sam had stopped caring because he hadn't looked for him, hurt. The disappointed look and betrayal in Dean's eyes had crushed him. Sam wonders if Dean knew how he had flayed Sam's soul with that look.

**. . . . . . .**

March here, stand there, salute this. Graduation Day is about the most boring of all the days Dean has spent in training. Some of it is the anticipation of getting the show over with so he can see his brother; and while his body is going through the motions, Dean is scanning the crowds looking for a Sasquatch. He's also musing over how fast things have gone since he said yes to Special Forces, but he figures he should look younger. This past week while Dean completed OSUT training at Fort Benning and was pinned with his cross-rifles last night after a grueling march, Warrant Officer Smith had tweaked a few things in his background. He was amazed to find that the first thing was he de-aged. Smith gave him new paperwork making Dean Mossberg 29 years old – with a secret security clearance. He hopes Sammy doesn't figure that one out.

Plus, even here at Benning – and pretty much under lockdown – Dean has put down a few ghosts. Somebody has to take care of the Supernatural monsters in the world.

Smith has been straight forward – Dean Winchester, now Dean Mossberg - belongs to the US Army, and he better be as good as his word. No backing down, no being a wuss about training, including, yup, airborne and air assault. Instead of being sent to Afghanistan, Dean will be spending most of the next year in training – one step at a time – until he is qualified to be in Delta Force, the super-secretive outfit that is officially known as 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, and affectionately known as The Unit by its members. Delta Force specializes in counter-terrorism, and is part of the Joint Special Forces Operating Command.

By obvious means and subterfuge, the Drill Sergeants have kept Dean away from phones and computers all week. He's worried about Sam walking into a trap, except he has cut a deal that leaves Sammy out of it and by that agreement, there's only so much he is allowed to tell Sam.

**. . . . . . .**

After his unit is marched back off the field, Dean starts looking for his brother in earnest, but he doesn't get far before Sam clasps his shoulder and pulls him for a hug. A real one.

"Hey, G.I. Joe." Sam teases, and Dean swallows back retorts. Swallows back tears, too. But it doesn't take long until they're interrupted by droves of younger soldiers who want their moms, dads, and even sisters, to meet the Old Man, the guy who helped them through. Sam watches proudly and shakes plenty of hands. After 15 minutes of it, he gets a hand on Dean's elbow and steers him toward the parking lot, only to find that baby has drawn a crowd of her own.

Dean practically kisses Baby. Crooning over her and petting her curves, happily talking about his car to the other enthusiasts. It takes a few minutes more to disburse that group until there's only one left. Dean notices and salutes.

"I decided to ride along while you talk to his brother." Smith doesn't ask, and Sam is puzzled by the interaction, as he gets into the driver's seat. "I've got us suites over at the Holiday Inn on Victory Drive. Don't worry about your duffel and personal stuff, Winchester, my guys have already moved you. I'll show you how to get there."

Sam stiffens. _Winchester_. This guy knows – and it sounds like more than just him. He casts an accusing gaze at Dean, who says "Yeah, some stuff came up this week, Sam. Let's get to the hotel and … we'll talk."

**. . . . . . . .**

Sam finds himself in a nice two double bed suite with his brother – with a connecting door to Warrant Officer Smith's King bed suite. Two other big, tough-looking guys are standing near the door across the hall from their room. Sam is starting to feel like things are worse than he imagined in the car. Glancing at his brother as they check their duffels to find all weapons missing, Sam reads resignation in his eyes as he turns toward the living area of the suite.

Smith is already there sitting in the computer office chair which he has moved near the refrigerator. He has kicked back, taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. He invites Dean to do the same as he reaches into the 'frig and draws out three beers. "Thought we could do this the easy way. Give your brother a chance to get used to our arrangement. … Relax, Sam."

Dean snorts. "Didn't think I could handle it? Or did you think Sam here was going to try to rescue me … Sir?" The sir is almost an afterthought, but it is not forgotten.

Smith gives Dean a crooked smile. "Maybe just guarding my investment." He swallows some beer. "Seriously, you can relax - both of you – no rank, Dean. We'll hang out here awhile. Talk. Me and the guys will give you time to talk on your own. We can get women up here for you, if you'd like. Tell you though, I'd expect better of your brother – I mean he's living with that vet. You, though, I'd understand. Infantry training can be a long 14 weeks. I'm not here to cramp your down time. I'm here so when Sam goes back home. He does it without trying anything stupid."

"I'd rather talk to my brother alone," Sam is looming, through the years he has found a way to make that lanky height intimidating. Well, to some people. Smith is not one of them. He quirks his lips and shoots Sam an amused glance.

"Sit down, kid, before you hurt yourself." And Sam, responding to that tone that used to brook no opposition when he heard it in his father's voice, sits on the couch, like a high school kid on a first date.

Dean stretches, takes off his jacket and tie, and slouches into the couch. Plops his feet up on the coffee table and noisily gulps half his beer. "That was as good as I hoped," he says, waving the beer bottle. Then he closes his eyes briefly and sighs. "Here's your chance to 'I told you so' at me, Sammy. I fucked up. Didn't keep my head down enough and ended up tweaking someone's radar."

"But Sam, I don't want you to worry. They have promised to leave you out of this. It's just my services they want right now."


	5. Graduation evening

(Author's note: I didn't do it to be mean! I repent and give you more.)

**. . . . . . .**

**Graduation Evening**

Warrant Officer Smith didn't blink an eye when he told Dean and Sam that they could call him John, but he couldn't completely hide his cocky grin with a beer bottle when Sam got disgruntled.

"Really? John Smith? You expect us to believe that's your real name? How stupid do you think we are?" Sam is on his first beer still, never having been as good at drinking as his brother who put the same emphasis on training there as he did everywhere else in his life.

Smith smirks at Sam. "Now that is rich coming from you, Sam Winchester, umm, maybe I should say Sam Singer, or is it Mossberg? And can we even begin to bring up your many aliases as you impersonated every federal and state agency you could get away with. FBI, State Police, the CDC. Shoot, kid, that is hypocrisy in a bucket."

Dean, who is just opening his third beer in an effort to make up for fourteen dry weeks, cracks up at the expression on his brother's face. "Sammy, you look like a fish, man. Just close your mouth." Dean excused himself last beer and is wearing his training clothes. His hair, never long to begin with, is just reaching the levels that make it easy to spike, even when he's not doing it on purpose. He's found a college football game on the television and looks like he is just going to settle in to some serious drinking, when Sam decides enough is enough. His face pursed in that way it gets when he thinks Dean is being a jerk, Sam reaches for the remote control and turns off the television.

"Let's all be drinking buddies watching a game AFTER you tell me what is going on Dean. This…, this John Smith knows our real names. He's tagging along on our reunion talking about you being some kind of investment. Will you please stop being such a closed mouth …?"

With an exasperated sigh, Dean interrupts. "All right! Just chill out, Sam. I confess. As a matter of fact, I already confessed. I told you I fucked up. My plan was to just keep my head down and go with the flow – join the infantry, be all I can be, but Sam, that wasn't really what I wanted when I, umm," Dean darts a glance over at Smith, trying to give Sam a significant look, one that said can we just be vague about this awhile longer? As far as he knows, Warrant Officer "Call me John" Smith knows how many times he has officially escaped custody, died, or went missing, but Dean hasn't filled him in on Hell and Purgatory.

Smith intercepts the look, and raises his eyebrows back at him. "Oh, Dean, you don't have any secrets believe me. You've got some big mouths in the Hunter community – Garth Fitzgerald ring a bell? You give that idiot one drink and he pukes out everything he knows. Now, your psych eval says you are fit for duty – not a sociopath - so we'll just have to take Hell and purgatory at your word."

It's Dean's turn to sit with his mouth gaping and Sam's turn to laugh. Obviously he is going to have to take things into hand and find out exactly what is going on, Sam thinks. _Well, we aren't dead, in a mental hospital, or a prison, so just maybe this can all work out._

Sam paces a few times, thinking. But the room isn't that big, and his legs are really long. "Maybe we could begin at the beginning," he says. "With you first, Dean."

It's downright embarrassing to have to tell your brother you ended up in the Army instead of the Marines because you were too old. Then Dean explains that he didn't put in for anything that required a background check or security clearance, so his Mossberg identity would hold up. Dean's chewing on his lower lip by then. "I guess I did too well at some of the training because I thought I was free and clear, heading for a rifle platoon in Afghanistan, when I got called in to meet Warrant Officer Smith here."

Dean takes another drink of beer, and his stomach gurgles loudly enough that it made all three of them decide it must be time to get something to eat.

Smith slips out of the room a minute. Comes back in quickly. "Okay, I've got Johnson and Johnson going out for food. But I want to set a couple things straight already." Dean nods. Then asks weakly, "Johnson and Johnson? Really?"

Smith shrugs. "Kid, you set off whistles when you aced the ASVAB. I mean aced. Perfect scores all the way through. You might think we've got highly qualified people walking through the door to the recruiter every day, but that just ain't so. Within the first week of being here, your company commander was asking to have your background vetted. You're a damned good soldier, but more than that, you are leadership material. Even if you hadn't routed every task, the way you got those kids in your platoon to work meant we needed to get you where you would do the most good."

"Ahhh, I'm blushing," Dean quips, but he is actually blushing, so Sam laughs at him a little. "That's my big brother. The perfect soldier," Sam says, but he says it fondly. Smith decides that kinda brotherly love needed encouragement, so he throws Sam a bone – the kind any younger sibling would love.

"I think you'll find out that you are legally the older brother right now," Smith tells Sam, who gets a big grin. Dean looks disgusted. "That's just a technicality, Sammy. I'm still the guy who changed your stinky diapers."

That maybe wasn't the best time, but a knock on the door has one of the Johnsons bringing in lunch. As he settles in to eating his first bacon cheese-burger in months, Dean tunes the rest of them out. He chomps and chews making appreciative moans and smacks of his lips, grinning at Sammy who is shaking his head at him.

"Kids," huffs Sam, and Smith almost chokes trying not to laugh.

It's Dean's turn to try to get the conversation back on track, and he's checking with Smith on everything he is telling his brother. "We agreed I'd go Special Forces…." Smith interrupts – "…which is why he has to be 29. Silly thing, but one of the areas it's toughest to get a waiver for."

Dean glares at the reminder, both of how he's getting older and Sam's obvious glee at gaining a little brother. I go Special Forces, and we go legit, Sam. Clean records as the Mossberg brothers. Plus, I'll be in training about a year, so you'll have a while longer before you have to worry about me in a combat zone."

Sam is listening intently. Trying to look at the situation from every angle. "So this sounds like a win-win. What part am I not understanding? Exactly what will you be doing in the Army Special Forces, Dean?"

Dean shrugs. "I can't tell you, Sam."

"Can't or won't, Dean?"

Smith gives them both a big smile. "This is one of those times you get to say one of those lines everyone uses. Only here, it's true. Sam, Dean can't tell you or he'll have to kill you."


	6. Saturday Morning

**Saturday Morning**

"Wakey, wakey!" Sam is less than pleased to have Dean acting like an alarm clock that Saturday morning. For one thing, he knows Dean drank more, so why isn't _his_ head pounding. Secondly, Dean seems to be dressed for running and determined to drag Sam with him.

"What is this, some kind of role-reversal?" Sam grouches as he sits up in the bed.

"Move it, Moose. It'll wake you up. We'll get coffee and breakfast when we're done running. Shit, Sammy. I'll take it easy on you. Five miles, tops." Dean is practically vibrating with energy, so Sam drags himself and his duffel into the restroom to get ready.

Warrant Officer John Smith is standing at the open door of their connecting suites eyeing Dean like he must be up to something, while Dean starts stretches. "You objectifying me … Sir?" Dean snipes at the older Army man, who snorts in response. Smith is actually just doing his job. He has been told to make sure "Mossberg" is there Monday for day one of his Ranger training. The people Smith works for don't want Dean rabbiting. The question he is debating is whether that's what Dean is planning to do if he walks out of the hotel with just his brother.

Dean moves into position and starts pushups – hits his required 49 for entry into Ranger school in just over a minute and pushes for the rest of the 100 he does now, routinely. He finishes, then gets into sit up position – 59 is minimum for those exercises, but he pushes onto the 100.

"Yo, Sammy, your gorgeous flowing hair's gonna get messed up anyway. It's been five minutes." Dean shouts at the closed bathroom door. It cracks open and Sam walks out, half-heartedly stretching his arms. Smith walks back in to the living area, but now he's trailed by Johnson and Johnson. The two are dressed for a run. Dean flashes Smith a crooked smile. "Trust me about as far as you could throw me, huh?"

Smith smiles back. "You're looking kinda skinny there, PFC. I bet I could throw you further than I trust ya." The four men start the run, but at the turn back point, Sam is huffing badly enough that he waves his brother on and slows to his less military jog instead of the six-minute mile running pace his brother is maintaining. One of the Johnsons stays with Sam, while the other runs with Dean.

Neither brother is considering this coincidence.

Dean is sitting on the bench out front of the hotel looking like he's sleeping when Sam and his escort get back four minutes after Dean was finished, but he jumps up right away and apologizes. "I didn't know you weren't still running, Sam, sorry. Didn't mean to ditch you."

As the guys wander back into the suite, they see Smith has ordered breakfast – lots of breakfast – for them both. He's looking a little chagrinned. He hadn't meant for Sam or Dean to feel like they are on lock-down, and he tells them that. He also pretty much orders them to eat. Dean glares at him, and Smith offers an apologetic smile.

"Tell you what I can do. I can give you some advice that'll help make Ranger training easier," Smith offers, testing the conversational waters. Dean isn't biting. He gives Smith a hard look.

Sam, though, wants Dean to get as much good advice as he can. "What advice is that?"

Smith turns toward Sam. "If he had time, I'd tell him to put on some weight because most people lose about 20 pounds during training and your brother doesn't look like he has that much to spare right now." Sam runs his eyes over his brother's frame. Dean rolls his eyes at him.

"Well, he came back from … I mean, when he left for basic he was slimmer than he was before, I guess. But since he can't gain that much weight this weekend, what's your second option?"

Dean is still studiously ignoring them both, finishing up eating his eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and orange juice. He gulps his first cup of coffee like he's afraid someone's going to snatch it away. Pours a second. Smith continues to talk to Sam over Dean's head. "Peanut butter."

"Excuse me?" Sam isn't sure what that has to do with Dean. Smith explains that what he is recommending is that Dean stock up on the individually packaged packets of peanut butter and keep them on hand, using them as power snacks for energy and calories.

Dean waves his hand. "Excuse me, _Sir"_ – and that word is ground out – "I'm going to clean up, but don't let me stop you two from bonding. Gotta make nice with the prison guards, right, Sammy?" The tone is cuttingly sarcastic as Dean stalks out of the room, but he has thrown off his warm-up jacket and his t-shirt is stuck to his ribs and backbone, Sam sees and realizes that his brother does look skinny – wonders why he hadn't see that earlier. Sighs.

Smith decides that maybe he can learn more from the younger brother than he has managed to drag out of the taciturn Dean. He warms up his and Sam's cups with the carafe. "You were talking about him coming back from purgatory? That's something I'd be interested in learning about. What do you know about his experience there?"

Sam looks down and gives a little shrug. "Not much. He said it was a land of monsters where he had to fight every day just to survive. He lost his best friend there. Said Purgatory was pure; but mostly we both said things we shouldn't have and he just - left. Joined the Army. You've been here for the reunion, so now you know as much as I do."

Smith eyes Sam. "You know, there are units in the government who investigate the kinds of things you hunters deal with - vampires, demons, ghosts. We have to figure out what's what so the wrong people don't end up charged. As for the military, we've had folks who are veterans, like your dad, go on to become hunters. Far as I can tell, this is the first time we've had a full-blown, you might say even legendary, hunter come join us. We are curious – yeah - and some folks might be making big plans for your brother once we have him trained up and accustomed to reporting to us."

Sam is torn, wondering if shows like X-Files or Men in Black had any basis in fact. But he is shaking his head at Smith. "They'd be better off being more straight forward with Dean. If you keep trying to manipulate him, well…"

"…Then I won't play nice either." Dean interrupts, toweling dry his hair and wearing a pair of jeans that are hanging low on his hips and a t-shirt. "Tell you what Smith. We'll let my little brother stay out of it – like you promised." He turns to direct a glare at his brother. "Hit the shower," he orders. Then he turns back to the Warrant Officer. "You ask _me_ what the fuck you want to know about me. Leave my brother out of this."

Smith is used to dealing with dangerous men, and he instantly tries to diffuse Dean, make him less of a green-eyed panther poised to pounce. However, Dean is riled up, and it doesn't help that Johnson and Johnson sidle in like they are prepared to physically "handle" the problem. The only way their timing could be that accurate is if the room is under surveillance. "You sonofabitch," Dean says after Sam has left the room. "I never agreed to be kept in a cage."

Smith stands up and closes the distance between him and the younger man. "You stand down, soldier." He orders. "Stand down because we don't want to hurt you – you're government property now – and, yeah, I'm your leash."

Smith is in Dean's face and Dean's hands are curling to fists, but the Johnsons have also closed the distance. At just over six feet, Dean is not short – but both Johnsons are closer to Sam's height and make the younger Winchester look slim with their well-toned muscle mass. "Don't make me knock some sense into you," growls Smith.

Dean's calculating his chances, that's obvious in his face, then instead of swinging, he steps back, mouth set in a hard line. Waves off the brute force.

"You want to know about purgatory? Or hell? Or heaven? Ask me. We agreed to keep my brother out of it."


	7. Intel on Heaven

Heaven

Warrant Officer John Smith watched as Dean Mossberg, Winchester, backed off actively engaging his muscled escorts, Johnson and Johnson, but didn't see anything in his face that suggested he was capitulating to Smith's, the military's, or the U.S. government's authority. He didn't really expect to, because regardless what Sam said, he was looking for a leader, not a perfectly obedient soldier.

"I see it's time we have a 'Come to Jesus' meeting," Smith says. "Fair enough. I will tell you everything I can in exchange from some straight out truth from you." He twirled the computer desk chair again, waved Dean and Sam toward the couch and slowly started counting under his breath. At six, Dean started pacing, shooting glaring looks between the body guards – or prison guards – and the recruiting officer. It was the steady half-crazed pacing of a captured tiger.

Smith kept his eyes on him, motioned for the Johnsons to back off. They moved away without taking their eyes off Mossberg, like he might explode at any moment.

"Come to Jesus," Dean says with a snort. "He seems to be MIA just like his old man." Smith waits patiently for more. When the Apocalypse started, it was too big for the government to overlook. It left several alphabet agencies going through old records, pulling out files and re-evaluating things, and not liking the gaps they found. Even if they cannot keep Winchester/Mossberg as an operative in a Special Forces capacity, they have every intention of indefinitely detaining him until they can wring his brain dry of information.

The younger brother? Well, Sam kept an on-line journal, so they pretty much know what he knows – or what he thinks he does. Plus, they are pretty sure his head isn't screwed on too tight. And Smith, yeah, he'd like to reel Dean in willingly to serve, but he's also a trained interrogator and any amount of time he gets will give them more to go on. He will use whatever he needs to as leverage to get him to talk. Sam is the best leverage he can possibly have according to every hunter they've drained dry.

So supernatural things in the real world – plenty of sources, but first-hand accounts of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory…This angry young man in front of him is the fountain of first-hand knowledge, just gotta get him to spill.

Dean's been thinking too, and he realizes he fell into a trap; he's just not real sure how to get him and Sam back out, if he can. Worse, he realizes that this is going to end up life changing for Sam who isn't going to be pleased if his brother just cost him his girlfriend. Because if they get out of here – they are going to have to crawl deep into the underground. And, oh shit, he's gonna lose his baby! Not only that, frikkin' shit! He's pretty much damned if he does and damned if he doesn't, and he's pissed as hell about the way this is turning out. He keeps pacing because he thinks better on his feet – wishes he had time to talk to Sam alone first, but they are listening in, so that's out.

"Yo, Mossberg," Smith verbally nudges him. "Quit stalling and tell me what you know about Heaven."

Sam wanders back into the living area. He too has been running scenarios in his head and is thinking they are hip deep in alligators. He locks gazes with his brother, wishing his rapport with his brother was as good as it once when, back when they could tell what the other was thinking by reading each other's eyes. He can tell his brother is trying to tell him something, and the older brother's look is apologetic. "What _now_, Dean?" Sam prods him.

"Tit for tat - Answers for answers, it looks like, starting with heaven." Dean casts an anguished look at his brother. "Sorry I got you into this, Sam." Dean is carding his own fingers through his hair with his brow furrowed and his head down. "Fuck it; fuck me, just plain fuck. This was my way out!" Dean looks torn. "But I never wanted my out to come at your expense, Sammy. Never wanted that. Look, I feel like hell for failing you again, Sam. For dragging you in once you got out. For failing you like I've failed every other godforsaken person I have ever loved, God…" Dean has come to a full stop, head down, shoulders radiating tenseness and sorrow.

Swallowing back a sarcastic remark, Sam thinks about what his badass brother just said. Sees how Dean is blaming everything on himself again, although Sam made choices here too. Plus, Sam heard the "I love you" clearly in Dean's speech, something he knows neither of them say often enough. Something he has just spent a year wishing he had told his brother more often.

Sam orders his thoughts, sits down next to his brother and addresses Smith. "I don't know what it is you need to know about it, but Heaven is, well, the base of operations of the Heavenly Host – Angels – who no matter how dumbed down Angelic lore as made them are actually warriors. God created Heaven, but he doesn't hang around there, and the Angels fight each other and demons. Most of them aren't actually fond of humans – except Cherubs who are kind of, different. The Seraphim and Archangels have some massive mojo; they're fast, can appear out of nowhere; oh, and they have some powerful weapons like Moses' staff and the Arc of the Covenant; but after the latest uprising, they don't know where they all are and they have had lots of casualties. Is this what you need? Heaven as looked at as possible friend or foe?"

Smith flashes Sam a quick smile. "It's a good start."

"So then you answer a question of ours?" Sam has taken over as the lawyer he was once going to be. He is acting as councilor and mouthpiece in this situation, and Dean is casting sideway looks at him, proud to see his little brother seem to much more competent than Dean has seen him in quite a while. Since the Demon blood addiction, since Hell.

"Couple things first. In Heaven – where are the people? I mean there are people aren't there?" Smith needs to know where the people are to know whether the forces of Earth can rely on them to participate if Heaven's forces assault Earth.

Dean looks annoyed at the lack of quid pro quo. He's short in his reply. "Most of the people are in their own little heavens. They relive happy memories of Earth…so make sure you make some." He's grumbling, wonders sometimes if that isn't the advice he should be trying to live by himself. "Umm, only angels have free run of Heaven for the most part." Smith nods his head; he understands that people already in Heaven will not be possible recruits.

"So you two are up. What's your first burning question?" Smith gives them time to think it over. He snags a bottle of Hirsch Bourbon and pours three generous doubles. Puts two on the coffee table near Sam and Dean and sips his own. He doesn't need to write things down knowing the place has eyes and ears.

Sam and Dean confer in writing; Sam actually has a notepad open and the brothers are scribbling questions and exclamations. Smith's amused to see they've figure out they are under surveillance – idly wonders if the camera is catching whatever's on the papers.

Dean breaks off his impassioned writing argument with Sam. Throws the pen and it sticks in the wall like a dart.

"What's the eventual outcome here for my brother? You said he'd be able to be out of it? Can you keep that promise? Do you even have the authority to?"

Smith looks Dean in the eyes and answers. "He'll have to help too. I was wrong. No, and No."


	8. Intel on Purgatory

Intel on Purgatory

Dean managed to get over the coffee table and tackle Smith before anybody saw him twitch. He is attempting to strangle the older man when the Johnson and Johnson bookends get him by either arm and slam him into the door frame with enough force to make him see stars. Dean wishes he had his boots, or even tennis shoes on, because when he kicks with the side of his foot and his heel, he hits something hard enough to make him think he may have broken a bone. "Sonofabitch."

Sam doesn't take long following his brother into the fray; two men on his brother….well, one's gonna have to let go to help stop the Samsquatch from pounding Smith in the face. Smith thinks of Sam as a civilian and, therefore, not a threat. He really hadn't realized that despite being a bit rusty, Sam is a martial artist. John Winchester didn't raise any civilians. Neither did Dean.

Three to two is one thing, and highly winnable odds even for unarmed Sam and Dean; when Smith and the Johnson boys are joined by two other large types, the Winchesters are soon overpowered, hogtied, gagged, and left lying facing each other on the floor while the five military men do a swift check for broken bones or areas needing stitches on each other.

Smith starts issuing orders. Bags are packed, car keys taken, and, finally, Smith and one of the new men are the only ones left in the room with the Winchesters. Smith picks up the now empty glasses of whiskey, puts ice and whiskey in one. He sits back on his chair and sips, rolling ice over a split lip.

"A bit hasty there, Mossberg." He says dryly, watching Dean try to work the gag off his mouth. Judging from the glint in the angry green eyes, he needs to stew a bit longer. Smith looks over at Sam – who he admits to himself he may have underestimated – he can see eyes that glint hazel and flint. Nope that one needs a few more minutes too.

"Now, you, Samuel Winchester, we thought you were all angst and hand-wringing. What kinda bee flew up your butt?" Smith winces as the bourbon stings, decides the boys may be right where he needs him at the moment. Tied and helpless. Lets it work into his head a bit. "Is this all about your veterinarian? 'Cause Jody, you've been jodied. You came here to see your brother, and Amelia's Don went to see her. We've been watching you see. Seems like they are having quite the family reunion."

Smith smirks as Sam tries to kick free. Payback is a bitch. It's also sometimes a ploy. "Frees you right up for military duty if you want. Or civilian consultant, maybe. But you've got a helluva punch on you. Might be wasted as a desk jockey. Got the drop on me." He raises his glass in a small salute to Sam, sips.

"I believe it is your turn to answer questions by the agreement we are working under." Smith unfastens the gag from Sam's mouth. Sam glares at him.

"Why should we answer another damn thing for you? You lied to Dean." Smith listens to Sam a minute, cocks his head and says, "Purgatory."

Sam snorts. "Not my deal."

Smith moves over toward a furious Dean. "If I take this gag off, you gonna try to bite me?" He can't tell for sure, but it sounds a lot like "Hell, yeah."

"Well, gotta say you have just knocked yourself out of the running for a good conduct medal. You know that, right? We've got you attacking a military officer appointed over you on video. You ready to play nice yet? Tell me about purgatory? Earn back a few brownie points?"

A stream of profanity flows from Dean's bleeding mouth, but Smith just stands near him, his booted foot on the bindings connecting Dean's tied hands and feet. He waits until Dean falls silent. "Purgatory. Report." It's an order to give an assessment of the military strength of another plane.

Dean, however, is staring at Smith in a very unmilitary fashion. "Smith, you have lied to me since I met you. What makes you think I'm going to keep playing your game here?"

"Because, son." Dean stiffens at that. "You don't have a choice. It's my marbles and my rules." Smith crouches down next to Dean to try to get on eye level. "Look, Dean, you came to us. You put yourself in our hands; and I can tell you, until this weekend, you were having a blast. Why do you have to start fighting over us wanting a bit of intel on the enemies we're facing? You think we could miss all the signs of an Apocalypse right out of the Book of Revelations?"

Sam's a bit unnerved by what he just heard. Smith was right. Dean looked happier and less burdened when Sam had first seen him at graduation. It wasn't until they noticed that they were under guard and Dean heard them threaten to involve Sam that he started going ballistic. Sam doesn't want to be responsible for his brother blowing his new future over him.

"Dean, just tell him." Sam is holding his brother's gaze. "Maybe it doesn't have to be us – we don't have to be the big, damn heroes all the time."

"Smith, you are one manipulative sonofabitch. And I ain't your son." Dean is trying to find some purchase to sit more upright. Smith is watching, amused at Dean's effort to attain higher ground as a strategic imperative.

"You going to try something stupid again if I untie you?"

Sam's "No." almost drowns out his brother's "Probably." And they take a moment to glare at each other as Smith chuckles and unties Sam. HE motions with his chin that Sam can release his brother, figuring to keep his distance just a bit from the hunter.

Dean rubs at wrists that bear chaffing, mostly from his struggle to get free of the ropes. He shoots a brief glare at Sam. "Purgatory is on a different plane than Heaven or Hell. It is where monsters go when they die - 30-40 million of them. Eve, the Mother-of-all is there, so are the Leviathan. From my experience, a portal to Purgatory has been opened by some writer name of H.P. Lovecraft. My friend Cas, well, let's just say he tried borrowing the souls for military purposes, but it didn't work out well for him, so twice he was there when we opened a doorway. And finally, when we staked the Leviathan wearing Dick Roman a portal opened."

Dean shakes his head. "Make a note not to be in close proximity to Purgatory portals. Drags shit in like some kind of whirlpool."

Sam asks the next question, and his brother turns his troubled eyes to answer. "I guess you could say Purgatory spit me out. But what really happened is there's an escape hatch for humans because we don't belong there. I spent a year being too fast to eat food." He trails off, shakes his head.

Smith nods, sees a battle weary look in Dean's eyes. "Fair enough. You're saying there's no military significance to Heaven or Purgatory. Am I right?" Dean gives a brief nod. "Then it's your turn to ask, and, umm, let's keep our disappointment in the answers to a minimum, hmm. Maybe just some name-calling this time."

Dean looks at his brother. "You ask what you need to know, Sammy."

"What's your endgame?" Sam asks. "Not just your plans for me or my brother. What do you hope to accomplish by gather the intel you are?"

"Why, save the planet, of course. We've had lightning, earthquakes, hail and fire, the burning of trees, mass extinction, poisoned waters, and monsters plaguing the earth. Don't you think it's about time we fought back?"


	9. Intel on Hell

Chapter 9

Intel on Hell

Sam explains to Smith that both he and Dean have been to Hell, that they closed one Hell Gate, and that not even demons want to be there, so it's not a good idea for the U.S. Military to go. He explains that most demons are souls who were once human and that they are possessing unwilling victims, but that there's a second hell faction that is led by Lucifer. It is that segment of Hell, plus many of the angels of Heaven who were trying to start the Apocalypse. "But Lucifer is currently locked in a cage in Hell with Michael."

Smith is astounded. "Michael, like the Archangel?"

Sam explains that the Apocalypse that set off alarms all over the world was a plan by Heaven's forces to go ahead and settle things. "They were prepared to lose half the people on earth in the attack," Sam explains.

"But angels and demons are super-strong, right?" Smith asks intent on finding some military application.

Dean looks at him like he's grown a second head. "Are you actually stupid enough to think you can _use_ demons? If anything you need to fight them. They're evil."

"You're naïve." Smith sneers at Dean. "We will make alliances with whomever we need to."

Smith insists that Dean and Sam explain how they got into Hell and back out; he wants the location of the Hell's Gate, and things spiral downhill pretty fast when Dean and Sam flat out refuse to give Smith and his men any more information. "Not a fucking word, Sam, you hear me. No matter what…." Dean was up off the couch again, and trying to block the big guy from getting a grip on him. "These guys are stupid enough to try to make a deal…."

That was all Sam hears Dean say before he's busy in a fight with three big guys; then one of the Johnsons and two others whose nametapes read Jones and Williams have his brother tied up again and are aggressively dealing with him. Smith, the other Johnson, and a Harris cuff Sam and sit him back on the couch.

Smith gives a "Tsk, tsk," as he stands over the bound and gagged Dean lying on the floor. Looking over at Sam, he shakes his head. "Your brother is really racking up the insubordination charges. You still acting as his attorney? 'Cause if you are, you need to tell him to ratchet down his temper. It's just getting him in more trouble." Smith's booted foot nudges Dean. "Well, tell him," he repeats, pulling back the boot and kicking Dean solidly in the upper thigh.

Dean tries rolling away with a muffled "oomph."

"Stop." Sam cannot believe what is happening. "Dean, stop. And stop kicking him, please. What is it you want to know?"

Smith is studying the figure on the floor, like he's looking for somewhere new to land a blow. Dean has a gash over his eye, blood flowing from his nose and lip, and is trying to roll into a defensive ball as much as having his hands and feet bound and tied together behind is back will allow. "You know, Sam, I sure hope you are going to be more reasonable than your brother here. He's just making things bad for himself – and I kinda liked him at first. Thought he had potential."

Sam has been trying to think of some way to extricate Dean from his contract, other than just calling it a fraud which it legally is because it was made under an assumed name. He's ready to try to bargain for their freedom, even as his brother is shaking his head fiercely at him from the ground. "Can you…please, can you stop the bleeding, or unbind me and let me check him out?"

When the room phone rings, Smith walks over to the desk, taking the opportunity to kick Dean in the side as he passes him. He answers the phone. "Yes, Sir. Yes. Ready in five." He hangs up. Smith goes into his bedroom to return in a couple minutes, slinging his duffel across the room, hitting Dean. Smith is dressed completely now in a dark suit. The other men have entered the room and packed up all Sam and Dean's gear.

Sam hears Smith order them to impound the car and make sure they bag and tag everything in it to transfer to the air field. He tells Harris to bring the car around to the front. Then he rifles through his bag and withdrawals a medical kit. He pulls out two syringes and vials. He fills them, brings one over to Sam and injects him in the upper arm. Sam's eyes are dropping wearily almost immediately as he watches Smith inject his brother.

"Looks like you all are going to get the royal treatment." Is the last thing Sam hears for awhile.

**. . . . . . .**

As Sam regains consciousness he remembers bits and pieces since the hotel room. Smith and someone else helping him walk out of the hotel, laughing about their friends over-indulging, being pushed into an SUV. He remembers rousing again on a plane to hear his brother moaning and vomiting. He remembers … he tries to raise his hands, finds them restrained. He remembers…

"Sammy, dude, what happened to your hair?"

Sam turns his head to see his brother strapped down in the bed next to him. Dean looks cleaned up from his earlier scuffle but a little pale, probably from the effects of the plane ride. "Hey, Dean, how're you doing?

"Sammy, your hair - it's gone." Dean slurs a little and tugs against his wrist restraints. "Where? Where are we?" Dean stares at Sam intently. "Man, I don't remember your hair ever being that short. Even baby you wasn't that bald."

Sam is looking around trying to figure out where they are. He's a little annoyed at his brother's gaze concentrated on him. "C'mon, Dean, focus. Where are we? Do you remember anything about the trip here?"

He almost feels bad for asking when his brother's face takes on a greenish tinge again. "Plane…." Dean says faintly. "Military base, fences, barbed wire…" He's muttering, but Sam can tell he's trying to remember. "ummm, … warm, blue skies, ocean breeze." He trails off, but he is still facing Sam who can see his eyes widening. "Gitmo."

The $2.9 million 12 bed psychiatric ward abuts the compound hospital on Guantanamo Bay. Outside it is an elongated metal trailer-like building with reflective-glass windows and a small sign that reads "Behavioral Health Unit." Inside are offices and group therapy rooms and six hospital like rooms with two beds in each with large plexi-glassed windows in a semi-circle facing a nurse's station. The setting allows each patient to be on suicide watch. Right now, only one of the rooms is occupied.

Sam and Dean Winchester have been moved to where no one can find them.

Sam muses that with the detention center at the American Naval base in Cuba drawing down, the Special Forces must have thought it would be a great place to hide them. No one knows where they are, and this place is infamous for developing and using torture to get enemy combatants to talk.

They are screwed.


	10. Interrogations

Chapter 10

Interrogations

The problem when people have a little knowledge and a heightened sense of their own importance is that they tend to overestimate their grasp of the situation. These three think they are going to outplay the King of Hell, but they aren't going to get any help from Dean with that bullshit.

Dean shakes his head looking at the three military men standing in front of him in the interrogation room. He is dressed in prisoner clothes, bright orange scrubs essentially, and the officers in front of him represent Navy, Air Force, and Army given their cammo patterns, but their nametapes and other identifying markers have been removed from the uniforms.

_What the fuck was I thinking? I thought I could go legit. Let Sam have his apple pie life. Shoulda known if it wasn't for bad luck, the Winchesters wouldn't have any at all_. Dean is musing as he assesses the room's security measures, the looseness of his shackles, gets a glimpse of his brother in a room across the way. _Poor Sammy. Not only did he get roped in on this with me, they cut off his hair._

"Mossberg! Pay attention." Barks out one of the men in front of him, but Dean hasn't been paying close enough attention to put a name on him. "Answer the fucking question."

Dean fixes the speaker with a cocky smirk. "Hey, you gonna treat me like an enemy combatant, you're gonna get name and rank from me."

With a glare, the three men storm out of the room and let the door close. They stand outside of the room with the glass walls arguing, but the sound proofing is so good that Dean cannot hear them. He watches the mute interplay between them, wishing they would move a bit. He likes to be able to keep an eye on his little brother. Sam seems to be shell shocked by their current captivity, by the fact that it was their own country's military holding them, and by being held in a mostly empty high security mental health facility.

After the first day, they had come and moved Sam out of the double room in this loony bin. Now Dean only gets to see glimpses of his brother, and he worries – worries about how Sam is doing mentally. He never got the whole story, but thinks that Sam must have had some kind of mental breakdown when he and Castiel were whammied into purgatory with the exploding Dick Roman. They haven't really talked about it – but Dean figures that must be what happened to make his brother not even look for him.

Plus, there's the whole Cas shifting the crazy from the wall breaking down in Sam's mind. With Castiel still MIA in Purgatory, or worse, Dean doesn't know how that's affecting his brother either. After that year of barely living through Purgatory and then Infantry training, Dean is suffering from boredom mostly this past four days. He is being contained in a small room – fed three times a day – but mostly nothing. No activity, no contact with people, no danger, no physical activity. It is only broken up by a once a day interrogation.

It's enough to drive him crazy – except he knows that's the point, so he refuses to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they are getting to him. He's amusing himself in his head trying to remember the lyrics of every song in order of the "Back in Black" CD, in order.

Dean's been through Hell, he's not going to let a little boredom wear him down.

**. . . . . . .**

Sam Winchester feels appalled at how fast and loose this military group seems to be with his civil rights. He knows it has been seven years since he was studying pre-law at Stanford, but it seems odd that things could have changed enough to make holding an American citizen without charges, without legal advice, and without a phone call could possibly be legal. Plus, they cut his hair off.

The interviewers ask him on a daily basis to help them help his country by summoning Crowley or an angel, but Sam remembers what Dean said - and he doesn't give them anything. Sam wishes they hadn't separated him and Dean. He had been hoping that maybe he could find some good in a bad situation and reconnect with his brother. Instead he has caught just a few glimpses of his brother shackled and surrounded by guards.

Today's interview though seems to be going differently than the past few days. They have items from the Impala's trunk spread out and labeled like evidence in a trial. They are holding up each item, asking him to identify it and its uses. Sam decides to see if he can get something in return for some harmless cooperation.

"I propose a trade. I'll tell you what you want to know about the tools and weapons from the car and you let me and Dean go outside together. We've been cooped up inside for days now." Sam can tell that the interrogators are pleased with what he said, but doesn't realize that that's because they see it as a crack in his earlier demeanor. If they can get him to cooperate some, they find out which buttons they can use to control him.

Sam tells them about rock salt and its uses in safety lines, shotgun shells, and in bothering demons. They seem amused when he tells them that it can also be spilled to occupy fairies. He explains hex bags and how they are made, and how to use them to either mark, bring down a curse, or to protect. Iron bars and iron filings are used to repel ghosts. Chalk is used to draw protection symbols, devil's traps, or summoning circles. Machete, well because with most monsters, separating the head from the body is a pretty good deterrent.

After thirty minutes of answering questions, Sam is led into a small enclosure outside the building and he's relieved when they bring Dean out a few minutes later.

"You've got fifteen minutes," the guard says before walking away.


	11. In the yard

Chapter 11

In the yard

Dean's imagination has taken him to the possibility of Sam and him ending up in prison one day – hell, been there, done that – but a military detention center? A high security mental ward on said military detention center? In Cuba? He would have reined in his imagination long before letting it get that far from sanity.

This is not the direction he had ever foreseen his life going, and damnit, it's not how life is supposed to be for his little brother. "Fucking Winchester luck," he mutters as he stands facing the fence where if you look between the weird x-shaped buildings and miles of tall fencing covered in concertina wire you could see a sliver of sun sparkling off the ocean.

As he hears the door behind him slam, Dean turns awkwardly, the fetters at his waist and leg irons robbing him of his predatory grace. His brother is squinting in the sunlight, bound as he is, but they are both here in this yard and alone. Dean cannot waste this opportunity. "Fifteen minutes," calls out the guard before slamming the door. The brothers shamble toward each other.

Sam and Dean lean into each other, unable to hug, needing to feel that the other is alive and okay. Sam rests his cheek on his brother forehead. "Hey, Dean, we've gotta talk, strategize. They didn't give me long and we've…we've got to get out of here."

Dean reluctantly breaks the partial embrace he has on his brother, steps back. The look in his tear-filled eyes is sorrowful as he begins to apologize. "Sammy, I am so sorry for getting you dragged into this. Man, I never, ever, wanted this for you. You should be in school, living your life with your lady vet in West Texas." He keeps talking even though his brother is trying to interrupt. "Let me finish, Sam. …Goddamnit, Sam, let me say this. I am sorry I ever came back into your life after Purgatory, after you found some peace. I fucked it up Sam. Looks like for both of us."

As Dean raises his green eyes to his brother, he is greeted with a full on Sam bitchface. And Sam is angry. "Finished, Dean?" Sam growls out. "I swear if we weren't chained up I'd deck your stupid ass for what you just said. Not come back into my life after Purgatory? Is that really what your delusional mind thinks would have been a better solution? You, you…ass. You, jerk!" Sam takes a step back still pinch faced and glaring at his brother. "Don't you ever think it would be better for me to think you are dead. I – damnit, Dean – is that some kind of payback for the year I was soulless, cause, Man, how could you even think of that?"

Sam is shaking so hard that he's afraid he's going to fall over. "I fell apart when I thought you were gone for good. That I was alone without you. Damnit, Dean. You frikkin jerk. You're my big brother. You're my family. You've always looked out for me…and I…I didn't even know where to start looking for you. You needed me, and I just…" He breaks off, takes a deep breath and tries again. "I want us to be together and free."

The two brothers stand there eye-to-eye a moment longer, but when Dean's mouth quirks up a little and he looks like he's about to make a smart-ass comment, Sam huffs and straightens a little more. "Don't even think about making a joke right now, Dean."

Sam steadily shoots him a stern glance, and Dean bites the inside of his mouth. "Yessir," he mutters, but he allows his love and pride in his brother to creep into his gaze. "Well, then, c'mon, College boy. I got us into this mess. What's your plan to get us out of it?"

Sam and Dean shuffle over to a picnic table and perch shoulder-to-shoulder as they begin to discuss their predicament. "I got us fifteen minutes by describing the uses of the tools and weapons from the trunk." Sam watches storm clouds come back into his brother's eyes at that statement. "Dean, we may have to cooperate here. This is the government."

"Right, Sam, this is people in the government. People, Sam, Stupid civilians who think they understand the Supernatural because they suddenly got a glimpse at what they've been ignoring a long time." Dean cut into Sam's explanation angrily. "Don't think because they've got us trapped that it makes them right. Don't tell them anything."

Sam glares back. "We tried it your way, Dean. Look where that's gotten us. Have you even tried to find out what exactly they want from us?" Dean has his head down, trying to rub his temples with his thumbs. "Have you, Dean?"

Dean looks into the taller man's eyes to answer. "I tried once, Sam. When they first let me know my cover was blown. I told them I'd give them anything they wanted. Anything. If they would just leave you out of it." He looks around, gestures with his chin, and shrugs. "Does it look like they'll keep their word? 'Cause if you think they will. I'll do what you tell me to. I figure I've screwed the pooch pretty badly here – got us both into this mess. Got you involved. Make the call, Sam. I will do whatever you want me to, little brother."

Sam stares into space a minute, considering. "So who has authority to make these kinds of decisions?"

It's his brother's turn to look thoughtful. "Guess that's where we start then, Sammy. That and insisting that they put us back in the same room so we can have each other's back. I suck at being alone, Sam. That's why I dragged you back so many years ago…and I'm sorry, but I still suck at being alone."

Sam bumps his shoulder gently into his brother's. "Me too, Dean. Me too."


	12. Negotiations

Chapter 12

Negotiations

Sam comes up with a plan. Neither he, nor Dean, will say another word until someone from the U.S. Attorney General's Office – someone with enough clout to make it stick – will meet with them both, in the same room at the same time, and draw up a legally binding contract of what the Winchesters will do for their country, and what the Winchesters can expect in return.

Now all the brothers have to do is stick to this same answer, no matter what.

Dean and Sam mentally prepare for the worst, figuring nothing the U.S. Government would do could be as bad as what they went through in Hell. The interrogators at Gitmo considered it a challenge because they know that physical pain isn't the only way to make someone talk, and they know that these two men have only each other. The question is which one will crack because, when it gets right down to brass tacks, military personnel don't want to play "let's make a deal." Isolation is a start. Twenty-four hours a day in a small windowless cell. Boredom is a weapon. Time can wear down mountains.

A week passes slowly; and if it weren't for three meals a day, served by a guard who may as well have been a robot given the interaction, they would have been completely alone. Both Sam and Dean eat, exercise, and sleep, actually getting stronger. Both shares what is in his head with the guard, nor out loud to the security cameras; and if it weren't for some outbursts during bad dreams, the interrogators would have had nothing.

Warrant Officer John Smith, though, still sees the potential for operatives in the Winchester brothers, and he has been involved in the case from the start. He intervenes and is allowed to meet with them to try to work something out. "I pulled some strings to get here. You should consider me a mediator. Lay your cards on the table and I'll take it to them, and we'll see if we can't come to an agreement that both sides can live with," Smith says without preamble.

Sam and Dean exchange looks. Each seems satisfied with a brief inspection that the other is physically okay. "But that agreement will be approved by someone from the Attorney General's Office." Sam insists. "We don't want to make deals and, I don't know, end up locked up on Gitmo because someone doesn't agree."

Smith flushes. "Yeah, things went south pretty fast there at Fort Benning, didn't it? Your brother isn't much of a diplomat, and when you started throwing punches too…well, I guess someone decided you needed a couple weeks to remember that you are severely outnumbered, Sam."

"Story of our lives," Dean smirks with a crooked half-smile. Smith grins back, glad to see confinement hasn't knocked all the spirit out of Mossberg.

"You know, we haven't just been twiddling our thumbs here." Smith motions with his hand. One of the Johnsons enters the interrogation room carrying two thick folders, hands them over to Smith and leaves again. "We've been piecing together the story of your lives from police files, criminal records – impressively long list of information there, by the way. Then interviews with other hunters, eye witnesses, survivors, and newspaper accounts – now, here's one that really gets me – also from a series of novels called Supernatural. Nothing like hiding the story of your lives in plain sight. We haven't been able to find the author though."

Dean tries to smother a groan, and Sam shakes his head at him, but can's quite cut off his brother's response. "Those are not completely true, you know," Dean chokes out, blushing, he turns to Sam. "Tell me again why we didn't kill Chuck? Those damned embarrassing books…"

"Dean, they were already published. There wasn't any way to undo what was done. Besides you know Chuck couldn't help it." Sam sighs.

"We found some unpublished ones too. And some kind of on-line fan club." Smith enjoys the look of pure disgust on Sam's face and the rising blushes on them both. "May be some moral issues if, ummm…" He trails off.

Dean looks horrified, and his mouth is opening and closing soundlessly. Sam kicks him under the table to get his attention, and then shoots him a meaningful glance. Dean closes his mouth and eyes, gives a small shake of his head. When he reopens his eyes, he squares his shoulders, and gives his brother a nod.

As planned, Sam takes lead. "Okay, Mr. Smith. You and the U.S. Government have plenty of time, money, and expertise. We aren't disputing that. Why do you even need us? What is it that you, or anyone else, think we can do that these other hunters you've contacted couldn't do just as well?"

"Don't play innocent, Sam." Smith huffs. "Sitting there acting cool, like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. From this information we know about you two being, what's the term, vessels? We know that if Michael and Lucifer are free, they're going to be looking for you. That's a damned good national security reason for keeping you in arm's reach – locked up if we have to. Secondly, don't sell yourselves short. Not everyone in the hunting community likes or trusts you, but every single one of them says you two know more about this angel and demon Apocalypse mess than all the rest of them together."

Sam is weighing the evidence. He knows they've got enough stacked against them that if it were to come to jury trials, the brother may never see the outside of a prison again. He swallows.

"What are we being offered?" Sam asks bluntly.

Smith leans back. "Well, we've talked about how it's gotta be. So listen up because if you accept this 'deal' it will be guaranteed by the Attorney General's Office, and it will be indissolvable. "

The boys will assume their Mossberg identities and the Winchesters will cease to exist. Dean's service record will be altered, and he will be made a captain of a special operations training detachment to Homeland Security. He and Sam, as Dean's civilian partner and government employee, will train other teams to recognize and fight paranormal problems in both classroom and field settings. They will cooperate fully with support teams to develop the training materials needed. They will be expected to report when and where they are told, coordinate with other government entities, and cease all credit card scams and any other unnecessary illegal activity. Everything they did would have to be top secret and talked about only on a need to know basis. The government will reassess the terms as needed, but excepting physical incapacitation, they will work for the next twenty years minimum.

"It's not a bad deal, as these things go," Smith says. "Gets rid of a mountain of old issues for you. Puts you both to work where we need you most. Hey, you even get a salary and benefits – healthcare, retirement. Promotions would be available. We'll put you in bachelor officer's quarters, so you'll have a place to live."

Before Sam has a chance to just plain accept it, Dean asks for a thirty-minute break with his brother, preferably outside and unmonitored so they can talk.

Once they are outside, Sam turns to face Dean. "This is a better deal than I expected. I think we should go for it."

"Sam, it puts us in their control for the next twenty years," Dean objects. "It's a hunting life – kind of. That's what you've been trying to get out of for years." Sam figures he should have guessed his brother was trying to shield him.

"Yeah, Dean, but I'm already caught up in this. They know about the vessel thing, remember. I think you're just getting a little freaked out by the idea of answering to someone else. This is as close to normal as I think we're ever gonna get Dean; I think we need to take it because I don't see any other option."

Dean stands up and stretches. He has a faraway look in his eyes, contemplating his brother's advice. Turns to look at Sam. "I want my baby back."

Sam smiles. "Yeah, we'll get them to give her a clean record too."

Still staring off into the distance, Dean says there's one other thing they may have to take care of. "We aren't really just a team of two."

With a puzzled look on his face, Sam stares at his brother. "What do you mean?"

"We've gotta get Cas a job and some paperwork too," Dean answers. "We've been talking in my dreams the last few days."

Sam gasps. It's great news that Cas is still alive, but it is really going to complicate things. He's not sure how the government will feel about having a former god, fallen angel on the payroll.


	13. Wrap Up

Wrap up

"You've been talking to Cas in your dreams?" Sam tries to keep the skepticism out of his voice, but c'mon now. How did Dean know it wasn't just wish fulfillment? Dean had been pretty down when he came back and thought Cas was dead.

"Want to tell me how that is, please? How do you know it's not, like, just a dream? That it's actually him?" The fidgeting was Sam's first clue that Dean was trying to find a way to tell him something without telling him everything. _Years of watching Dean lie to people, and he still fidgets when he tries to lie to me;_ Sam isn't sure whether he finds that funny or endearing.

Sam stands and looms over his brother a minute, halting the escape from the conversation Dean's eyes are making as they dart around the yard. Dean scowls at his brother. "Wanna back off a little Gigantor? Just stop with the parental authority figure stance. I, umm, I'll tell you … but no judgment calls."

_His big bad brother stammering; this's gotta be good_. Sam forces his expression into solemn, crosses his heart. "You've got it. No judgment. Did you and Cas ...get close…in Purgatory?" He's trying to find a delicate way to phrase the question, but Dean's puzzled expression says he is not getting through. Then, just like the cartoon figures with light bulbs over their heads, he sees Dean get what he's asking. His eyes fly open enormously.

"You frikkin perv, Sammy! Get your mind outta my, umm, … personal, … sex, no. I mean, …no. None of your business. Don't go there. Don't ask, don't tell."

Sam doesn't know what to make of that incoherent jumble of words, so he takes a deep breath and tries again. "So, no close personal relationship? Then how are you two connected well enough that you –know- he's alive?" Dean mumbles a reply. "Excuse me, Dean. Did you say you were praying?"

Dean sighs. Looks at his brother. "Praying. No judging me, Sam."

Dean knows how many times in the past he has raised his voice to Heaven, and how many times he felt his prayers were unanswered. But after he found Cas again in Purgatory, and the angel admitted to hearing him pray every night, Dean realized that Cas was the Heavenly assistance that he'd been praying for ever since Hell. Not many people got such a personal response – Seemed appropriate to keep talking to God, the absentee father.

The younger brother's eyes brim with tears, but he bites back any hurt retort. Dean, praying? That's pretty major, and it makes him concerned again about what Purgatory was like because his brother hasn't been very forthcoming. He brings his mind back to the point, if he's going back in to renegotiate terms with the U.S. Government to have iron-clad employment contracts drawn up for himself, his brother, and an Angel of the Lord, he'd better go prepared.

"And Castiel wants to work for them? He said that in your prayers or dreams?" Sam's voice is gentle, drawing a slightly pissed-off look from his brother.

"Don't treat me like I'm feeble-minded all the sudden, Sam. I ain't any more so than usual. Cas is gonna be where I am most the time 'cause he's coming back. He just wants them to give him some kind of security clearance, so he doesn't have to hurt anyone." Dean chuckles. "Not like he needs health benefits, Sam. He's got his angel mojo back. But no trying to capture or kill him, or interrogate him, all the time. He says he'll work alongside me because I'm his partner, umm,… his assignment. He's my Guardian Angel."

Sam is considering how he's going to put this in a contract form, and what it means that Castiel is still assigned to guard Dean. "So, security clearance and identification for your Angelic partner and-or body guard? Yeah, this isn't going to make us both sound cracked."

He thinks for a few minutes. "Dean, will Cas make an appearance here to sign paperwork?'

Dean gets a far-away look in his eyes. "Yeah, Sam, he'll be here on cue. He's kinda here right now anyway. Just not visible yet."

"Aside from that you're willing to take their, umm, plea bargain? Contract? You'll sign. Twenty years?"

Dean looks at his brother. "I'd still rather they left you out of it. But, yeah. Be nice to have a clean record again. A job, benefits, and still be hunting things and saving people. Twenty years is normal tour if you're retiring. Damn, Sam, it'd be the first time we've ever had any kind of end date."

"Well, that's how I feel about it too, Dean. Like maybe – finally – we can really have a life, you know. Live somewhere. Work together. Be almost normal."

Dean looks at him. "Wonder why they want me to be military, but you get to be a civilian, Sam? Can't be the haircut 'cause yours is shorter than mine at the moment. But yeah, Captain Dean Mossberg, U.S. Army. I can live with that."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, well, they just could see you make a good soldier, I guess. Or they want to keep you even more under their thumb. S'okay. We'll still be together, and I like the idea of being the civilian research partner."

Sam stands up and offers his hand to haul Dean back up. He grins. "So you promise you'll sign the papers?"

Dean glares at him. "I just said that, didn't I. They do this, I get baby back. And Cas gets clearance."

"As is –you don't argue or fight about any more fine points?"

"Just said that, Sammy."

"Promise, Dean. No going back on it."

"I promise. What do you want? I cross my heart?"

Sam grins. "Then c'mon, little brother, we've got paperwork to sign."

**. . . . . . .**

Warrant Officer John Smith was pleasantly surprised to hear, that except for giving them back the Chevy Impala he had impounded, they were willing to sign the contract.

Then Sam threw him for a bit of a loop saying Dean's Guardian Angel had to be included in the deal.

"You trying to get out of this on a psych problem?"

Sam gives him a half-smile, Shakes his head slightly. Looks over at his brother. "Told you they'd think you were nuts."

Dean looks at Smith. "You know, I get it. I knew about demons long before I ever met an angel. I had a hard time believing too. But, umm, yeah. Angel. Seraph specifically. He's my Guardian Angel."

Smith is sitting there squinting at him, like he'd grown a second head.

Dean folds his arms, bows his head. "Castiel, please get your feathery ass down here. Amen."

With a rush of wind and the sound of feathers, Castiel appears. "Hello, Dean."


End file.
